


Healing

by October_rust



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4642161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a short story about Steve taking care of Bucky's injuries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healing

Outside, the blizzard is still howling.

Bucky listens to the sounds. He and Steve are separated from the rest of the team, with no extraction possible till tomorrow morning, when the weather is supposed to get better. At least the small safehouse they are staying in is sturdy enough to withstand the incessant attacks of snow and wind. 

He lets his eyes close, feeling a pleasant heaviness in his muscles. Sturdy enough, cozy, and stuffed with enough provisions to last them through the whole winter if necessary. The log in the fireplace cracks, and he sprawls in the chair, tips his head back, savoring the warmth. 

Before he can drift off, there's a light tap on his shoulder. 

“C'mon, Buck, your bed is only a couple of steps away from here.”

He blinks up at Steve, who is leaning over him. “Can't move,” he murmurs.”I spent the whole day helping you wipe out another base full of HYDRA goons. Have pity, Steve.”

“Nah.” Merciless, Steve tugs him up, and guides him to the table, where first aid kit is laid out. 

Bucky just shakes his head. “Seriously, Steve? I told you it's nothing. Won't even have a bruise in the morning.”

Steve shrugs. “I know. But you also promised you'd let me have a look at it.”

He did promise. “Stubborn asshole,” he mutters, even as he starts unbuckling Kevlar and leather.

“I love you too, buddy.”

The corners of Bucky's mouth lift at that dry tone. Of course, Steve notices, and his own lips curl into an answering smirk. All these years of war, ice and captivity, and not much has really changed between them. It's a comfort, a sign of normalcy, and it keeps the dreams where cold emptiness is slowly closing in around him at bay. 

He winces when he stretches his arms up to take off his undershirt. Damn, but now he can feel the dull, drilling ache jabbing at his ribs, although muscle and bone have already began knitting back together thanks to the serum. 

“I got sloppy out there,” he grumbles as he braces himself against the table.

“Yep. Old age is finally catching up with you.”

“Like you're the one to talk. Screw you, Rogers.”

“You're a spry old man, I'll give you that.” Steve studies Bucky's injured side. Then, he reaches for a small tube and his tone gets more serious.“I wish Sam was here to patch you up ...”

“Patch me up? Jesus, Steve, quit it. I'm not dying and I'm not in pieces.” Bucky almost sighs in pleasure at the first brush of Steve's fingers, gently spreading gel over his bruises. “But, yeah, I wish Sam was here. He'd do it all professional, and not fret like you. Or mock my advanced age.”

He enjoys it, though, both the teasing and unnecessary fussing. HYDRA never did bother to view him as anything more than a weapon to be used, stored and maintained to preserve its peak functionality. Pain didn't matter, as long as it didn't affect the Soldier's performance in the field.

“Huh. You still have that scar.”

“Which one? You'll have to be more specific, Steve.”

Steve doesn't reply; instead, he lightly traces the thin white line that starts just next to the jut of the hipbone. The skin tingles in the wake of Steve's touch, and suddenly Bucky can't focus on anything else save that point of connection. He wills himself not to squirm, calls upon his sniper's discipline to remain still.

“Oh, that one,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant and hoping Steve won't notice anything amiss. “Bottle shard. Courtesy of the O'Connell kid, right?”

“Yeah.” Steve looks at him, eyes warm. “He caught us after school, remember? Gave me nice, big shiner.”

“Mean little bastard.” Even now, his contempt for O'Connell and some echo of old anger still surge up. “He never fought fair and always picked on younger kids.”

“Well, it backfired, didn't it? You were only ten and you broke his nose.”

“Poetic justice.” He can't help but think their scuffle with O'Connell must have been one of the first times he was willing to put himself in harm's way for Steve. And Steve has done the same for him, sticking by him through thick and thin. 

Close as brothers.

Hah, if only it was that simple – at least, for him. 

Brothers, yes, not much has changed between them, yes, and he couldn't be more grateful to have that back. But sometimes things get weird – sometimes a casual hug is enough to rev up his pulse and have him grip Steve's shoulders tighter than necessary. Post-battle high, he tried to rationalize it. Just adrenaline making you all stupid because you're still alive.

Except it's not only that. Deep down, he knows it has more to do with how they touch, with the sense of belonging, the easy jokes, with how every gesture communicates “I'd gladly die for you,” and what that means for both of them. 

That's a slippery slope, though. Best not think about it. 

“Ok, bandage.”

Steve starts wrapping the fabric around the injured ribs, and Bucky grits his teeth, desperately trying not to focus too much on the feel of Steve's arms around him, or the hot breath tickling his neck. Those reactions are so confusing, and scare the hell out of him. He's never …

“Bucky?” Steve peers at him, worry creasing his brow. “Am I hurting you?”

Of course, his muscles are coiled hard with tension, and Steve draws the wrong conclusion. For one reckless moment, Bucky considers telling him that no, it's not because of pain, it's because you're so close, and I want to bury mu hand in your hair, haul you even closer, and …

Yeah, tell him, and watch Steve's open expression become distant, watch shock and wariness replace humor in his eyes. Yeah, be selfish, tell him, and lose your friend. 

So Bucky shrugs instead. “Not your fault,” he lies smoothly. “But better get on with it.”

With a curt nod Steve resumes his task; his movements are quick, efficient, yet very careful so as not to cause Bucky more discomfort. In a way, it's even worse: to have Steve treat him with such concern, while he's all greedy for things he has no right to crave. 

His hands grip the edge of the table, and the light bounces off the plates of his metal arm. What Steve needs is a true friend and comrade in arms who will always have his back, he reminds himself. That's the role he can play in Steve's life, nothing more. 

“You're blushing.”

Steve's words almost make him flinch. Still, he keeps his face impassive, stares at a point above Steve's shoulder. “You're seeing things.”

“Am I? Well, let's find out.” And, before he can react, long fingers cradle his jaw and a cool palm presses against his forehead.

“Steve, what the ...”

“No fever,” Steve muses. His eyes are very blue and filled with curiosity. “Then why ...”

“Lay off, Rogers.”

Despite alarm prickling at his skin, he manages to sound normal, as he usually does when they are ribbing each other and he's exasperated with Steve. This time, though, the trick doesn't work; if anything, Steve's gaze sharpens, becomes worried once again. 

“What is it? Bucky, please, tell me.”

He feels oddly exposed under that steady regard, as if Steve can see right through his mask to the the tangled mess of confusion, shame and yearning he's so desperately trying to hide. It's too much – he closes his eyes to give himself a moment to regroup, to think up some funny excuse, but words won't come anymore.

“Bucky.”

A thumb brushes the edge of his lower lip, feather-light. Such a small, accidental touch, yet it's enough to shatter his defenses: he sucks in a shaky breath, as pleasure jolts through him and makes blood pump faster in his veins. 

Defeated, he looks at Steve, takes in the familiar features, the stubborn set of jaw, long eyelashes, blond hair still mussed from the helmet and sticking up in messy spikes. The air between them is suddenly hot, full of charged energy. Steve opens his mouth, question forming in his eyes – but Bucky leans in, as though drawn by some inexorable force. 

He hears Steve's startled gasp, feels it wash over his cheek, and then he angles his head, presses his lips against Steve's. They both freeze at the contact, which is laughable, really, given how chaste it all is. Two grown men acting like dumb kids, unsure and clumsy, reacting to the faintest touch with panic and wonder. 

Maybe it's supposed to be like that, though. Maybe it's because they should have done it long time ago.

Should they?

The thought penetrates through the haze. Against him, Steve holds very still, mouth stiff under his, neither resisting nor reciprocating, clearly waiting for it to be over. The lack of response is an answer in itself, so Bucky eases back, humiliation and disappointment clenching around his chest like an icy vise.

Honestly, what else did he expect? 

“Sorry,” he blurts. He can't meet Steve's eyes. “But yeah, now you know what's wrong with me.”

His words are met with silence. Again, his heart gives a painful lurch – he screwed up, most likely irrevocably ruined their friendship, just as he's feared. “Steve, I'm sorry. Let's forget it ever happ – ”

The rest of his apology dissolves into a surprised grunt as warm lips cover his. For a moment, his mind blanks out, too wrapped up in guilt to process this new development; then, sensations start barreling in a rapid torrent, making his head spin. 

This time, there's nothing uncertain or awkward about Steve – his mouth moves over Bucky's, hot and insistent, teeth nipping, tongue probing to gain entrance. Light, playful bites lend an edge to the blooming pleasure, and, helpless against it, Bucky melts into the embrace, doubts and shame forgotten.

Eager for more, he rears up, almost knocking Steve back a step. The surroundings become a blur; the way their lips fit together, hungry, impatient, is the only thing that matters right now. Soon, even that is not enough; they both groan when the kiss deepens and their tongues finally slide against each other, tangling in a frantic rhythm.

Hands roaming over broad shoulders, almost dizzy with need, Bucky yanks Steve closer still. Clothed chest bumps into his, the white star in the center of the uniform grazing his naked skin, but he's too far gone to care about that. Steve's clean scent, the leashed power of his body, the feel of his fingers tightening in Bucky's hair eclipse everything else.

They stay like this, hearts pounding in unison, until the urgency passes, and they just cling to each other, enveloped in warmth. The kiss slows down to a lazy exploration, fleeting touches that send pleasant sparks along his nerve endings and make him smile against Steve's mouth. It's so good, so sweet, he doesn't ever want to let go. 

At last, the moment comes to an end, and Steve draws back to look at him. Silence stretches for long minutes.

What the hell has just happened?

As usual, Steve is the braver of the two of them. “Well,” he starts, voice hoarse.

Bucky licks his lips, savors the lingering taste. “Well.”

A flush is staining Steve's cheeks, but he plows ahead, his gaze defiant, not once darting away from Bucky's.

“Hope this cleared up things for you, Buck,” he says.

And, yes, underneath all the embarrassment and challenge, there's a spark of humor. You little shit, Bucky thinks with fondness. Everything is fine; they can still laugh together, still share this wordless understanding. Relief wells up in his chest, drowning out tension and fear. 

“Dunno,” he teases back. “Might need some more explaining.”

Steve blinks in surprise. “Are you sure? Your ribs ...”

“Aren't made from glass.” He drags his palm over the bandage, lets his fingers drift lower, over the hard ridges of his stomach. “C'mon, Captain. Care to explain it all to me one more time?”

Awe lights up Steve's face before he schools his features into a more neutral expression. Still, the rapt attention with which he traces the movements of Bucky's fingertips, the dark fire that deepens the blue of his irises give the game away.

“As you wish, sergeant.”

Bucky grins at him, enjoying the thrill of anticipation. Fortunately, they'll have the whole night to figure things out. And if the blizzard doesn't relent … 

His smile grows wider.


End file.
